The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) (5 page)

“We know our jobs,” Officer Reynolds assured him. “The file will be added to the evidence locker, sealed from all tampering.”

Glen shrugged. Marshals were selected for incorruptibility, but their support staff was sometimes a different matter. They weren't paid very well and they tended to get the shit duties, which bred either desperation or resentment. And, as much as he hated to admit it, there were a few Marshals who had gone off the rails in a big way. One of them had been running a criminal network through an entire CityBlock on Earth when he’d finally been discovered and sentenced to permanent exile. And two more had been responsible for the largest slavery ring to be uncovered for years. No, he knew better than to assume that everyone was honest, utterly without a price. Given the right incentive, anyone might break and join the dark side.

He turned and walked back through the network of unmarked corridors – anyone who had a right to be there knew the way without having to refer to maps – and entered the common room in search of coffee and a place to lay his head. It wasn't quite going home, as Patty had ordered, but a few hours of sleep before he made his way back to his apartment seemed a very good idea. But Sergeant Chou intercepted him before he could lie down on one of the beds and close his eyes.

“The Boss wants to see you,” he said. “Now.”

Glen blinked in surprise. “Did she say why?”

“No,” Chou said. “But she did say it was important.”

Glen sighed and made his way back to Patty’s office. Inside, Patty was seated at her desk, reading through a stack of paperwork. Glen felt a flicker of sympathy and tapped on the door, alerting her to his presence. She looked up, then nodded towards the chair and turned back to her paperwork. Glen sat down, fighting the urge to close his eyes. He had no idea if anyone had dozed off in Patty’s office before, but he didn’t want to be the first. She would be far from pleased.

“There’s been a development,” Patty said. “We found something unusual in the warehouse.”

We
, Glen thought, nastily. Patty wasn’t normally given to stealing credit from her subordinates ... although, to be fair, she wasn't given to hanging them out to dry either. She did look after her subordinates, after all. No one could get to them without going through her first.

“We found enough weapons to fight a minor war,” Glen said. Terra Nova was brutally hoplophobic, with the private possession of weapons completely banned. The Nihilists would be able to do real damage before the military responded with crushing firepower, which would cause as many civilian casualties as the terrorists themselves. “Define unusual.”

“We found a young girl,” Patty said. “Around thirteen years old, according to the medics, and seemingly a prisoner.”

Glen winced. The Nihilists had absolutely no regard for social norms, but it wasn't like them to hold young children prisoner. They merely wanted to kill as many people as possible before they were killed themselves. Indeed, given that they believed that death freed them from a pointless existence, it was rare for them to take prisoners. Their insane creed urged them to kill prisoners, rather than try to use them as hostages. The fact they’d kept a prisoner ... it didn't look good. He didn't want to
think
about what kind of abuse might have been heaped on her before she'd been freed.

“There was no signs of abuse, as far as we can tell,” Patty said, as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “But there was no time to do more than a basic scan.”

“I see,” Glen said. He met his superior’s eyes. “I thought I was suspended.”

There was a flash of annoyance in Patty’s eyes. “I’d like you to take the girl with you,” she said. “Someone needs to look after her – and make sure she doesn't go anywhere once she recovers from the shock of being held captive.”

Glen blinked. “I’m not a bloody nursemaid ...”

“Right now,” Patty snapped, effortlessly overriding him, “the poor girl is in custody. We can't hold her here indefinitely. By law, if we can't make other arrangements, she would have to go to Kiddie Hall” – juvenile detention – “or the Civil Guard. Given her age and relative health, you know what would happen to her there.”

“I know,” Glen said, sourly. “She’d be sold to the highest bidder.”

The thought was bitterly unpleasant. Prisoners – particularly young and fertile women – were in high demand along the Rim. They had no rights, after all, and couldn't complain if they were sold into servitude as mail order brides ... if they were lucky. There were brothels for the unfortunate ones, places where horny minors or contract workers could slake their lusts outside working hours. He’d shut down several himself, during his first assignment out on the Rim, but he knew others would have already sprung up to replace them.

He sighed. The last thing he wanted was a child underfoot, particularly one the same age as his daughter, if she had lived. But he couldn't leave her in custody either.

“You’re the only Marshal with an apartment to himself,” Patty added. “Anyone else would have to explain her presence to their partner. It could be awkward.”

“Yes, it could,” Glen agreed. He was too tired to argue further. “I’ll take her.”

“Good,” Patty said. “You’ll find her in the waiting room.”

This is horrifying, of course, to modern readers. But to the locals of that time, the woman’s opinion was largely irrelevant. Indeed, when a woman saw a man she liked, she often had to resort to allowing herself to be kidnapped and raped, in the hopes everything would fall the way she wanted it. The concept of allowing men and women to meet on friendly terms would have been alien to them.

- Professor Leo Caesius.
The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

It felt like years since Belinda had entered a briefing compartment on a starship. None of her Pathfinder missions had required a full brief; she’d taken her orders from her superior in the team, rather than the overall commander on the ground. And, as a Marine Rifleman, she’d spent most of her time on the ground, rather than in space. Her unit had never been deployed onboard a battleship.

But then
, she thought, as she took her seat,
they were removing the Marines from the ships long before the shit hit the fan on Earth
.

“The current situation is dire,” the Commandant said, shortly. “Right now, the Core Worlds are teetering on the brink of anarchy. The interstellar economy has crashed along with Earth, the various military and political officers are considering independent action and it won’t be long before one or more of them makes a grab for outright power. And when they do, Belinda, we will have an all-out civil war on our hands.”

Belinda nodded. She’d met enough politicians – and senior military officers – to know that most of them put their careers first and foremost. Given the sudden disappearance of Earth, and the Grand Senate, they’d certainly consider trying to take supreme power for themselves – and the sooner, the better. The ties that bound the Empire together were snapping, one by one. It wouldn't be long before the full effects of the economic shockwave were felt right across the Empire. And who knew what would happen then?

“We’ve already seen some major riots on various planets,” the Commandant continued, darkly. “Normally, the riots have specific grievances – or are organised by one political faction or another. This time, the riots appear to be largely spontaneous, directed against the remaining elements of the power structure. I imagine they will get worse as the news heads out beyond the Core Worlds.”

“And planets start rebelling against corporate authority,” Belinda said. She’d seen enough planets that had tried to rebel to know that hundreds of millions of colonists bitterly resented the corporations that milked their worlds for all they were worth. Most of their rebellions had been brutally put down. Now, without Earth or a unified military command, the next wave of rebellions might just succeed. “And what will that do to the economy?”

The Commandant laughed, harshly. “There isn't an economy any longer,” he said. “It will take years, perhaps, to build something new. Right now, I suspect that a number of planets are planning to simply seize the Earth-held property in their systems. They’ll have to become part of the local economy.”

Belinda considered the implications as best as she could. The Empire had done its best to ensure that each and every Earth-like world was capable of feeding its population, but it hadn't tried to ensure an equable distribution of factories, orbital industrial nodes or cloudscoops. There would be a colossal shortage of fuel for everything from starships to planet-side fusion plants, spare parts would suddenly become rarer than gold and anyone who had control over
any
production plant would suddenly be in a position to dictate terms to everyone who didn’t. The Empire’s collapse would lead straight to civil war.

And how could anyone, even the Marines, hope to stop it?

“Are you intending to present Roland to them as the next Emperor?” She asked. “I don’t think he’d want the job.”

“Even if he did, I doubt it would be enough to stop the collapse,” the Commandant pointed out, dryly. “Legally, he might be the Emperor; practically, he controls nothing, not even his own life. At best, one of the warlords would use him as a puppet; at worst, he’d be killed out of hand by whoever got their hands on him first.”

“Then what can we do?” Belinda asked. She had never despaired in her life, but thinking about the sheer scale of the coming disaster – the disaster that was already upon them, no matter how much they might wish to deny it – was terrifying. It was almost completely beyond her comprehension. “We’re staring at a war that will make the Unification Wars look like a genteel disagreement.”

“That is unfortunately true,” the Commandant said. He took a breath. “We are not the only ones to realise this, Belinda. Governor Theodore Onge has also recognised the problem.”

Belinda’s eyes narrowed. “Is he related to Grand Senator Onge?”

“They’re related, yes,” the Commandant said. “It would probably not be politic for you to tell the Governor that you killed his family’s patriarch.”

“Oh,” Belinda said. “And would it be politic for me to tell him that his ... patriarch did more than anyone else to start the crisis that led to disaster on Earth?”

“Probably not,” the Commandant said. He tapped a switch and a holographic starchart appeared in front of them. Tiny icons beside each star marked the location of military, industrial and political nodes. An alarming number seemed to be marked STATUS UNKNOWN. “The Governor has been spending the last two weeks trying to organise a conference of the surviving civil and military authorities within the Core Worlds.”

“A conference,” Belinda repeated.

“A conference,” the Commandant said. “I believe he intends to convince them that they can gain more by sharing their resources and dividing up the bounty than by fighting. It may not be a laudable goal, from our point of view, but it might prevent further chaos for a number of years.”

Belinda had her doubts. Trust was something in short supply in the highest ranks of the Empire, not without reason. There was no way an Imperial Governor would risk exposing his back so overtly, not when one of his rivals might take it as an opportunity to stick a knife in him. And even if Onge was being honest – and everything Belinda had seen and heard about that family suggested they were incapable of seeing anything, but opportunity for themselves – there was no guarantee that all of the other governors and military leaders would act in good faith. Indeed, Belinda would bet half her salary that at least five of them would be plotting ways to turn the conference into a bloodbath.

“It seems absurd,” she said. “Do you really think it can work?”

“I think we have no alternative,” the Commandant admitted. For a moment, he suddenly seemed very old. “If the Core Worlds start fighting amongst themselves, Belinda, we can say goodbye to any hope of restoring humanity’s unity.”

Belinda studied him for a long moment. “Would that be a bad thing?”

“Explain,” the Commandant ordered, a sharp edge in his voice.

“The Empire, in the name of unity, stifled development,” Belinda said. “And it provoked hatred across a third of the galaxy. If the Empire were to vanish, sir, would it not be better for the rest of the human race?”

She sighed. The Empire was supposed to unite humanity – and, if that were the case, why were there so many rebellions against the Empire? She’d lost count of planets that had had uprisings, from tiny affairs that were quickly squashed to outright rebellions that consumed vital resources and invariably cost more to crush than was gained in the aftermath of war. And then there were the countless resistance groups that sprung up, sharing information and thoughts on how to make the next uprising far more costly for the Imperials ...

“The problem, Belinda, is that every war we have fought over the last thousand years has been relatively restrained,” the Commandant pointed out. “If the Empire vanishes completely, we will see warfare on a previously unknown scale. There will be planetary bombardments, mass slaughter of civilians and far worse. Billions upon billions will die, either in the wars themselves or as the remains of the infrastructure breaks down. The conference may be our only hope of salvaging something from the wreckage.”

He sighed. “I understand your feelings,” he admitted. “But we have no choice.”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said. “What do you want me to do?”

“The Conference is due to be held on Terra Nova, three weeks from today,” the Commandant said. He sounded irked, unsurprisingly. Travel times between star systems were far too slow for any form of centralised decision-making. The Empire had never quite learned that lesson, which partly explained why so many minor riots had become major rebellions by the time the military hastened to pour water on the flames. “I want you to go there and ... do your best to ensure the conference takes place – and succeeds.”

Belinda winced. She was used to vague orders – standard practice in the Marines was to give someone an objective, then let them get on with it – but the Commandant wasn't being even remotely specific. What did he actually want her to do?